I challenge you not to laugh. Go on. Watch it and see.
Wednesday, 3 June 2009
My Little Boy
My darling boy, I see you growing up before my very eyes of late and wonder when my heart will stop hurting for the long days of precious childhood that have slipped by already without my celebrating every last moment of every last one.
Could I love you more than I do now?
Impossible.
Could I take the time to show you that I care for you more often than I have?
Yes, I'm sure I could.
How I love your appalling jokes, your engaging conversation, your noisy make believe, your crazy ideas (so very like your father in every way!).
How I wish I could listen to your happy play forever and banish all your worries, now and in the future, with a single motherly kiss.
I am so utterly proud of the little man you have suddenly become.
I stand back and observe as you conquer the school work that I know sometimes you have found so hard to complete. I am thrilled for you as I watch you develop marvelous boyish friendships that I hope will last and last. I am delighted by the devotion and care with which you treat your baby sister, no matter how difficult she can be; I see your heart is big and good and pure in all that you do, and you bring me great joy.
And yet.
I feel time rushing forward.
I already see your fledgling attempts at independence even now, when you are still a baby in my eyes.
I know now that soon the day will come, sooner than I'll ever be prepared for, the day when I will have to let you go, a real man, alone, out into the big bad world.
I just pray that you will know I am your mother and that I will always be here for you.
Could I love you more than I do now?
Impossible.
Could I take the time to show you that I care for you more often than I have?
Yes, I'm sure I could.
How I love your appalling jokes, your engaging conversation, your noisy make believe, your crazy ideas (so very like your father in every way!).
How I wish I could listen to your happy play forever and banish all your worries, now and in the future, with a single motherly kiss.
I am so utterly proud of the little man you have suddenly become.
I stand back and observe as you conquer the school work that I know sometimes you have found so hard to complete. I am thrilled for you as I watch you develop marvelous boyish friendships that I hope will last and last. I am delighted by the devotion and care with which you treat your baby sister, no matter how difficult she can be; I see your heart is big and good and pure in all that you do, and you bring me great joy.
And yet.
I feel time rushing forward.
I already see your fledgling attempts at independence even now, when you are still a baby in my eyes.
I know now that soon the day will come, sooner than I'll ever be prepared for, the day when I will have to let you go, a real man, alone, out into the big bad world.
I just pray that you will know I am your mother and that I will always be here for you.
Friday, 29 May 2009
Does my blog look big in this?
Americans have a lot to answer for is all I'm saying. So listen, I'll post soon with loooong overdue photos. Been busy round here!
Thursday, 23 April 2009
Money, money, money!
I'm cleaning house today. Grrrr.
Some women have a shoe fetish. Some must have the latest fashion must-have. Some moms drive to die-for posh SUVs with all the latest gadgetry.
I have a cleaner.
(And admittedly a personal trainer. But that doesn't count as he was paid up front in a flush moment over a year ago).
You can identify a cash-strapped Carter if I have to get the mop out. I'd rather be barefoot than scrub my own kitchen, so the cleaning lady's always the last luxury to go.
Roll on magical credit crunch solution!
Meanwhile, we are the very epitome of middle class broke. Swimming pool in the garden, but can't afford to pay the bills.
Some women have a shoe fetish. Some must have the latest fashion must-have. Some moms drive to die-for posh SUVs with all the latest gadgetry.
I have a cleaner.
(And admittedly a personal trainer. But that doesn't count as he was paid up front in a flush moment over a year ago).
You can identify a cash-strapped Carter if I have to get the mop out. I'd rather be barefoot than scrub my own kitchen, so the cleaning lady's always the last luxury to go.
Roll on magical credit crunch solution!
Meanwhile, we are the very epitome of middle class broke. Swimming pool in the garden, but can't afford to pay the bills.
Saturday, 11 April 2009
En Vogue
Anyone thinking of an image overhaul of any kind could do worse in the search for inspiration than spending an afternoon in Bahnhofstrasse in the centre of Zürich.
Parked on a bench with a view on a sunny afternoon, one can spot just about any variation of attire, fashionable or otherwise, as well as what not to do with one's hair, make up, boobs or more dramatically, face.
Since we came to Switzerland, I have never seen so much cosmetic surgery in my life - everybody who's anybody feels the need to alter what they were given, and while some of it is admittedly perky, subtle and youth-giving, the work that stands out is of course the truly bad stuff. I'm of the opinion that women of a certain age will eventually all look exactly the same, and around these parts, a lot of them already do. Frightening stuff, and enough to put me off for the time being at least.
On the other hand, the youth of today don't seem to fare much better. Girls teetering along in preposterously high heels and matching identical outfits (yes, ok, I'm a little jealous, slumming it as I am in my battered crocs and 6 year old jeans here, but have you tried carrying a ten kilo baby on your hip in anything other than the flattest of flats??), it would seem that the new expression of individualism is to copy thy neighbour. 'Twas ever thus, I know, (I remember coveting a schoolfriend's particularly gorgeous wooden heeled black lace ups with fashionable white stitching at the tender age of 9 or so), but there seems to be so much more choice in this burgeoning style metropolis in which we now live; I had only hoped that the gay young things would push the heavily labelled envelope a little.
And while I'm fashion ranting, what's with the ongoing statement chihuahua? A small rat on a string at the best of times, and surely so Paris Hilton 2004? Terribly cumbersome when shopping as well, in the prerequisite dinky little burberry print handtache.
I think it's time someone introduced a new must-have for the fashionista to parade as the last word in sartorial elegance. Ideas? Persian cat? Pot-bellied pig? Pet monkey? Believe they've all been done at some stage or another. Miniature pony? Bit outlandish, and would never make the escalator in the Prada megastore.
Might I suggest my own personal perennial ultimate accessory: the slightly overweight middle aged American male. I've had outstanding results in almost every social situation with mine.
Combine with charming and reasonably smartly dressed young boy plus mini-me baby poppet in glasses for optimal head-turning results...
Parked on a bench with a view on a sunny afternoon, one can spot just about any variation of attire, fashionable or otherwise, as well as what not to do with one's hair, make up, boobs or more dramatically, face.
Since we came to Switzerland, I have never seen so much cosmetic surgery in my life - everybody who's anybody feels the need to alter what they were given, and while some of it is admittedly perky, subtle and youth-giving, the work that stands out is of course the truly bad stuff. I'm of the opinion that women of a certain age will eventually all look exactly the same, and around these parts, a lot of them already do. Frightening stuff, and enough to put me off for the time being at least.
On the other hand, the youth of today don't seem to fare much better. Girls teetering along in preposterously high heels and matching identical outfits (yes, ok, I'm a little jealous, slumming it as I am in my battered crocs and 6 year old jeans here, but have you tried carrying a ten kilo baby on your hip in anything other than the flattest of flats??), it would seem that the new expression of individualism is to copy thy neighbour. 'Twas ever thus, I know, (I remember coveting a schoolfriend's particularly gorgeous wooden heeled black lace ups with fashionable white stitching at the tender age of 9 or so), but there seems to be so much more choice in this burgeoning style metropolis in which we now live; I had only hoped that the gay young things would push the heavily labelled envelope a little.
And while I'm fashion ranting, what's with the ongoing statement chihuahua? A small rat on a string at the best of times, and surely so Paris Hilton 2004? Terribly cumbersome when shopping as well, in the prerequisite dinky little burberry print handtache.
I think it's time someone introduced a new must-have for the fashionista to parade as the last word in sartorial elegance. Ideas? Persian cat? Pot-bellied pig? Pet monkey? Believe they've all been done at some stage or another. Miniature pony? Bit outlandish, and would never make the escalator in the Prada megastore.
Might I suggest my own personal perennial ultimate accessory: the slightly overweight middle aged American male. I've had outstanding results in almost every social situation with mine.
Combine with charming and reasonably smartly dressed young boy plus mini-me baby poppet in glasses for optimal head-turning results...
Road Trip
We went to Innsbruck on Wednesday.
Carter trips to Innsbruck are never without incident.
There was the time we broke down at 10pm on a Sunday night in Lichtenstein, and the only way we could get home was to drive very fast indeed in order to keep the motor running.
Or the time we were stopped by the Austrian border guards and discovered that we had no passports, only Swiss identity cards, and no cash to pay the resulting fine.
This time, we were also stopped, but by the Swiss border guards, who wanted to know if we were 'smuggling things' - meat or alcohol mostly. The answer was no and eventually after full identity checks we were allowed to continue our journey, but actually the answer ought to have been kinda, as we had a boot full of soya milk and baby food (both being considerably cheaper in Austria).
The funniest thing was setting off, calling in at the nearest gas station to carefully ensure a full tank of gas, and as we left the forecourt and pulled onto the motorway, sitting powerless and watching the oil light cheerfully sparkle on the dash. Timing, people, timing!
On the way home, we had a similar moment, only it occurred in the back of the car, from Jaime Kay's seat to be precise. She was an excellent little passenger, but it had been a gorgeous afternoon in Innsbruck, and it was a pleasure to see Denny again, and we had tarried a little longer than we should have in the park, and suddenly it was getting quite late.
Well, you know my Jaime, she likes her routine, and it was past bedtime, and she suddenly remembered there was stuff she ought to be doing.
Sometimes I think she doesn't do sign language at all. In fact, I'd say, often she doesn't do sign language. She responds well to sign language, but many days can go by when we don't see her initiate a sign at all.
When it's urgent, however, it's a different matter. And this was urgent business indeed.
Without warning, we all became aware of two little hands held high in the air, signing 'milk! milk!' for all they were worth. And then when that didn't work, we had 'drink! drink!' and then back to 'milk! milk! milk! MILK!!!!' Maybe a quick pause, while we all discussed exactly how to proceed and whether we could make it home before disaster struck. Then back on again: 'Milk! MILK!' In the end, we were compelled to make yet another unscheduled stop and fell upon the trusted soya milk from the boot. We held our breath to see if it would hit the spot, and lo and behold, the milk went down like a dream, the eyes fluttered and closed, and the baby emergency was over.
Carter trips to Innsbruck are never without incident.
There was the time we broke down at 10pm on a Sunday night in Lichtenstein, and the only way we could get home was to drive very fast indeed in order to keep the motor running.
Or the time we were stopped by the Austrian border guards and discovered that we had no passports, only Swiss identity cards, and no cash to pay the resulting fine.
This time, we were also stopped, but by the Swiss border guards, who wanted to know if we were 'smuggling things' - meat or alcohol mostly. The answer was no and eventually after full identity checks we were allowed to continue our journey, but actually the answer ought to have been kinda, as we had a boot full of soya milk and baby food (both being considerably cheaper in Austria).
The funniest thing was setting off, calling in at the nearest gas station to carefully ensure a full tank of gas, and as we left the forecourt and pulled onto the motorway, sitting powerless and watching the oil light cheerfully sparkle on the dash. Timing, people, timing!
On the way home, we had a similar moment, only it occurred in the back of the car, from Jaime Kay's seat to be precise. She was an excellent little passenger, but it had been a gorgeous afternoon in Innsbruck, and it was a pleasure to see Denny again, and we had tarried a little longer than we should have in the park, and suddenly it was getting quite late.
Well, you know my Jaime, she likes her routine, and it was past bedtime, and she suddenly remembered there was stuff she ought to be doing.
Sometimes I think she doesn't do sign language at all. In fact, I'd say, often she doesn't do sign language. She responds well to sign language, but many days can go by when we don't see her initiate a sign at all.
When it's urgent, however, it's a different matter. And this was urgent business indeed.
Without warning, we all became aware of two little hands held high in the air, signing 'milk! milk!' for all they were worth. And then when that didn't work, we had 'drink! drink!' and then back to 'milk! milk! milk! MILK!!!!' Maybe a quick pause, while we all discussed exactly how to proceed and whether we could make it home before disaster struck. Then back on again: 'Milk! MILK!' In the end, we were compelled to make yet another unscheduled stop and fell upon the trusted soya milk from the boot. We held our breath to see if it would hit the spot, and lo and behold, the milk went down like a dream, the eyes fluttered and closed, and the baby emergency was over.
Saturday, 28 March 2009
In sickness and in health
This week has been madness; last week was just plain horrible.
Poor Jaime Kay seems to have lurched from one poorly episode to another this winter; so last week, (beginning only one day after completing a course of ventolin for her bad chest) we hit my least favourite illness: gastric flu.
The whole house and all its contents were coated at one stage or another in vom. And equally bad, the noise that went along with her. Squawking, crying, shouting, carrying on; I believe there's not a person in the neighbourhood who was unaware of her plight last week.
Fortunately, she did begin to return to her usual humour around Thursday. In fact, I think we were over the worst by Wednesday and up and fighting at 1am through 4am to prove it. Too hungry to sleep, to sleepy to eat - a classic dilemma if ever there was one, and it happened again a couple of nights later, and a couple of nights after that too.
We bravely turned up to physio at the end of the week, having missed all other appointments of any kind, although I kinda guessed beforehand that she wouldn't be all that productive. The therapist (who tells me every session without fail how very fond she is of her) was thrilled; she tried her best to work with her but then gave up and cuddled her for ten minutes instead, and also insisted on concluded the session with her by now customary tour of all other therapists to be found in common areas in order to show her off.
Poor Jaime Kay seems to have lurched from one poorly episode to another this winter; so last week, (beginning only one day after completing a course of ventolin for her bad chest) we hit my least favourite illness: gastric flu.
The whole house and all its contents were coated at one stage or another in vom. And equally bad, the noise that went along with her. Squawking, crying, shouting, carrying on; I believe there's not a person in the neighbourhood who was unaware of her plight last week.
Fortunately, she did begin to return to her usual humour around Thursday. In fact, I think we were over the worst by Wednesday and up and fighting at 1am through 4am to prove it. Too hungry to sleep, to sleepy to eat - a classic dilemma if ever there was one, and it happened again a couple of nights later, and a couple of nights after that too.
We bravely turned up to physio at the end of the week, having missed all other appointments of any kind, although I kinda guessed beforehand that she wouldn't be all that productive. The therapist (who tells me every session without fail how very fond she is of her) was thrilled; she tried her best to work with her but then gave up and cuddled her for ten minutes instead, and also insisted on concluded the session with her by now customary tour of all other therapists to be found in common areas in order to show her off.
Incidentally, I finally lost another kilo as a result of all this turmoil. I can now fit into my jeans, although they look horribly knackered and rather untrendy. Hurrah though! Slowly but surely...!
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